


It's never that simple ( One-Shots )

by ellieboots2810



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BBC, Bromance, Comedy, Dark, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, France (Country), Fun, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, King Louis, Whump, constagnan, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellieboots2810/pseuds/ellieboots2810
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots involving our four favourite Musketeers. Please leave me a nice lil' prompt or request and we'll see how this goes.<br/>1st Chapter: The four are kidnapped. They're being held for information which they continually refuse to give. Things take a turn for the worst, however, as the night progresses. How long can the Musketeers hold their quiet as their youngest takes the consequences?<br/>2nd: The Musketeers try to surprise d'Artagnan ( Fluff )<br/>3rd: The four inseparables are with the regiment on a training exercise when things take a turn for the worst</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally been writing this for over two months. I took it on bloody holiday with me! After three drafts, two pages of brainstorming and notes and over 20,000 words altogether, I finally got it polished and finished. Hope you enjoy and please read the note at the end - Ellie x ( P.S: If you're new, nice to meet you. *Shakes hand* )

Athos jolted awake, his head snapping up from where it had previously lay limp on his shoulder. He felt like he had been drinking for three days straight. Deciding against getting up anytime soon, he shook his head, which only caused a ringing to start in his ears. What on earth had happened for his head to hurt as it did? With a sigh, he went to rub his eyes in the hope that it would help waken his senses more, only to find that he could not bring his hands around to his front. Trying again, he felt cold, hard metal rub against his wrists. The clanging sound of iron from behind him confirmed his suspicions of being in chains.

Great. 

Preparing himself for the worst, he slowly peeled open his eyes. 

It was dark. For the first minute or so, he could see nothing except shadows and black shapes. As more time passed, his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light and he began to assess his surroundings. 

Either side of him were stone walls. Dust and cobwebs gathered in the corners and the floor was purely concrete and dirt. The faint squeaking a rats and the rhythmic drip-drop of water were the only sounds he could hear. In the distance he caught sight of a slither of light, indicating a door or passage of some kind. That was the only exit he could see at this moment. 

Blinking a couple more times, he turned to look to his left. His eyes met the forms of his three unconscious brothers. Porthos was closest to him, his head against his chest and back against the wall. Beside him, was Aramis, in a similar position and lastly lay d’Artagnan, back facing away from them all. 

Athos closed his eyes once more, leaning his head against the stone wall behind him.

The four of them had been sent by Treville to deliver a letter written by the King. To whom, they had no idea. What the letter contained, they were not told. All they did know was that a courier was waiting for them in Versailles to deliver the message from there. 

Not even a mile out of Paris, they were ambushed. All of them had agreed on taking a back road, hoping to avoid trouble. But it didn’t matter what road they took. Trouble always seemed to find them. 

Several or so men had leapt from the trees, firing pistols and waving swords. Aramis had fired back first, taking out the nearest of the men whilst Porthos jumped from his horse, tackling two of the bandits to the ground. 

It had been going well. They had gained the upper hand and were rapidly beginning to fight the attackers off. That was, until more men had appeared. 

Even with their remarkable skills, the four of them had been unable to fend off the hoard of men surrounding them. In the end, Aramis and Porthos had been overpowered and held with daggers to their throats, giving Athos and d’Artagnan no choice but to surrender themselves for their friend’s lives. 

The four Musketeers were lined up, side by side, on the ground whilst another four of the attackers came to stand above them. In one swift motion, all four of them were knocked unconscious by the butt’s of their captor’s pistols. 

That would explain the headache. 

A groan beside Athos brought the man from his thoughts. Porthos’ head lolled from right to left on his chest. The man seemed reluctant to wake up. Another groan and his dark eyelashes fluttered. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Athos said dryly. 

Porthos grimaced, his own dark eyes sweeping the vicinity. 

“Nothin’s ever easy for us, is it?” He moaned, although a small smile played on his face. 

Athos had to agree with his friend. Nothing ever was ...

“Keep it down, will you? My head feels like it has been mistaken for the melon Porthos so enjoys shooting from above it.” Aramis’ grumbles joined their conversation. 

Porthos chuckled. “Headache?”

“Mm hm.” Mumbled Aramis, squeezing his eyes tight before opening them to the darkness they were confined in.

“Wha’ happened?” Porthos asked, frowning as the chains behind his back rattled. 

“We were ambushed. I would guess that our hosts have us locked away in one of the abandoned tunnels under Paris.” Athos answered.

Aramis raised his eyebrows. “Honestly, they couldn’t have had the courtesy to provide us with a hot meal and the presence of women when we awoke, let alone a light. How rude.”

“G’t a conc’ssion but sassy as ev’r, eh ‘Mis?”

Athos looked down the line to see a rather sluggish looking d’Artagnan grinning back at him.

“Well, look who’s decided t’ join us?” Porthos jeered, giving the Gascon a wink. 

“How’s the head?” Athos asked, casting his protégé a concerned look. 

“No worse th’n yours, I ‘spect.”

He frowned at d’Artagnan’s slurred speech. Athos vaguely recalled something about how head injuries can confuse minds or damage senses for a short period of time. He’d make sure to ask Aramis about it once they escaped. 

As though the man in question had read his mind, the medic amongst them spoke up. 

“Any way out of here?” 

Athos shrugged his shoulders. “Not as far as I know. There is a door at the end of this tunnel, but other than that I can see no other means of escape.”

Porthos opened his mouth, about to ask another question, but all was cast aside as the light grew and the door swung open. 

Uniformed Soldiers traipsed in. Their movements were practised and, in one, they dispersed to stand at opposite sides of the tunnel. A tall, middle-aged man walked down the centre, four men following behind him. Athos couldn’t help but be reminded of Treville, himself and his brothers. But he knew that, other than their formation, they shared no further likeness. 

The middle-aged man stood three or so feet away from Porthos and Aramis. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a sign commonly associated with trying to intimidate your enemy. 

Aramis didn’t seem to care. 

“Good evening gentlemen,” He chimed. “How are we all this evening?”

Porthos grinned at his friend’s nerve, winking at the man standing in front of them. 

The man in question, who Athos had deduced as the Captain or leader of their group of captors, walked forwards towards Aramis. 

“Well, look what we have here!” 

The accent was Spanish. His voice was a whisper, yet it seemed to cut through the air like a dagger. 

“An entertainer is in our midst.”

Athos mentally cursed himself for not realising the uniforms of the Guards was of Spanish design. Their red and gold leather a clear give away. 

“I have to say,” The Spaniard continued. “I’m most impressed with your optimism, Musketeer.”

Aramis smiled charmingly. “Well, what can I say? The ladies-“

He was cut off by a harsh slap around the face, sending him toppling sideways in the direction of Porthos. 

“Oi!” Porthos snarled, leaning toward the Spaniard, but the chains stopping him from moving any further. 

The man seemed unperturbed. “You speak when spoken to, Musketeer.” He sneered, walking back to his original place and falling in line between the four other Spanish Guards. 

“My name is Ambrosio Batres of the Spanish Guard. I believe you hold some information I wish to have.”

Athos raised his eyebrows. The letter? Never the less, the Musketeers remained silent. 

Batres had begun to pace up and down, from Athos to d’Artagnan, surveying each of them in turn. On his third ‘inspection’, he paused at d’Artagnan. Athos’ eyes rested on his protégé, noticing the way he seemed to be swaying slightly and the fact his eyes were unfocused. He seemed to have a more serious concussion than the rest of them, which didn’t bode well in their current predicament. 

Ambrosio smirked. “I’m surprised to see one so young a Musketeer.” He jeered, looking around at the other Spaniards. “He looks still a child. I’m astounded he can even wield a sword, let alone protect his king.”

Now they’d done it. Athos sent a silent prayer, hoping that the Gascon would keep his mouth shut. But somehow, that didn’t seem likely. The boy had a tendency to retaliate when mocked of his youth and the added irrational mind from a head injury only made matters worse.

“Th’n we have somethin’ in common, monsieur.” D’Artagnan smiled, his voice holding a dangerous level of mischief. “I’m surprised you h’ve not yet retired – c’nsidering your obvious age ...”

If he had not been restrained by chains, Athos was sure he would currently be strangling his protégé. Looking to his side, he rolled his eyes, seeing the small but not unsurprising looks of amusement on Porthos and Aramis’ faces. So immature...

Batres lunged forward, with a speed that contradicted d’Artagnan’s previous tease of his age. The Spaniard’s face was centimetres from the Gascon’s. 

“Watch your mouth, boy.” Batres warned, spit flying in onto the Musketeer’s olive skin. 

Athos held his breath-

“Watch your back! People at your stage ‘n life need t’ be more cautious.”

-and let out a long internal groan. 

Batres smiled. But it wasn’t genuine - far from it. His lips curled evilly, eyes dark and dangerous. All wishes to strangle his protégé were swept from Athos’ mind, replaced by a sudden strong urge to leap in front of him and protect him from whatever was about to happen.

Batres’ leg swung towards a defenceless d’Artagnan, kicking him in the stomach. The Gascon doubled over wheezing and coughing. The force of the attack had winded him.  
Porthos roared, his legs kicking wildly whilst Aramis attempted to reach their little brother, his chains clanging in objection. 

Athos merely sat and stared at the Spaniard. As though, if he glared hard enough, the man would simply drop dead. Needless to say, no such miracle occurred. 

Batres, however, had stood idly while d’Artagnan curled in on himself. His eyes scoured greedily over each of the Musketeers, almost as if intrigued by their different reactions. His facial expression changed as his eyes suddenly seemed to gleam with satisfaction. Looking over his shoulder, he inclined his head in the Gascon’s direction. 

“That one.” He said simply. Two of the four Spanish guards behind him walked forwards whilst a third followed behind them. The pair of Spaniards hoisted d’Artagnan to his knees, supporting him under his arms as the boy still struggled to catch his breath. The third guard came to stand in front of him, his hands behind his back and face neutral. 

Batres waited patiently before talking once more. “Here’s how this is going to work.” He began to pace back and forth. “I am going to ask you a question. If you answer truthfully, the boy may be spared some pain. If not ...” He paused dramatically, looking at each of them in turn with cruel smile. “Well, let us just say he might be a little worse for wear.”

Athos scowled. His heart was beating so fast that he was surprised the others could not hear it pound against his chest. Blood pumped in his ears and adrenaline coursed its way through his veins. With every passing moment, he was coming up with new ways to enjoy this man’s death. Glancing to his side and seeing the look’s on all three of his brother’s faces, he was certain they had their own methods in mind as well. 

Seemingly happy with the continued quiet from the Musketeers, Batres clapped his hands together, gleefully rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“Shall we begin?” He chimed, showing all his teeth in a wide smile. 

“You’re sick!” Porthos spat, but Batres took no notice. 

“Question one.” The Spaniard said, the smile slipping from his face. “Where is the letter?”

Athos couldn’t say he was taken aback. There was clearly an underlying purpose to all this and the letter was the most plausible explanation for their kidnapping. The ambush happening as they were delivering such an important message - concerning something that even they did not know about - was no coincidence. 

“What letter?” Aramis asked, looking curious. 

Catching on quickly, Athos raised his eyebrows, hoping that he looked mildly confused and slightly annoyed (the latter of which wasn’t too hard ...)

Batres walked closer to the Musketeer. “The letter from the King being delivered to a courier in Versailles.”

Athos thanked Aramis for having the fore-sight to suggest hiding the letter as soon as they had left the Garrison. The Medic had pointed out that a message of such high priority had best stay hidden, in case unwanted trouble came their way. How right he had been. 

The King’s cream parchment lay safely tucked away in the leather of Athos’ uniform. A secret pocket had been placed for such a need in each Musketeer’s jacket, should such an occasion as this arise. Another thing Athos was thankful for. He just hoped they had no intention of searching them for the letter. 

“We’ve got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” Porthos snarled, shaking his head innocently. 

Batres wasn’t buying it. “Really? The courier in Versailles seemed very easy to squeeze the information out of.”

Athos swallowed, gathering himself before he spoke. “We know nothing of this letter. You cannot expect us to give you information about something we never knew existed until moments ago.”

Batres glared at him for a while, their eyes locking into cold, hard stares. It stayed this way until the Spaniard looked away from the Musketeer and instead towards the guard in front of d’Artagnan. 

“Start off mildly. We don’t want him passing out too soon.”

The Musketeers barely had time to register what was about to happen when a series of punches were thrown at d’Artagnan’s body. A fist collided with his jaw, then his stomach, then his nose. Porthos began to wrestle with the iron around his wrists, so much so that Athos was expecting the burly Musketeer to break his own bones if he was not careful. But both Aramis and Athos made no move to stop him, neither man able to do anything but wince in sympathy at the array of bruises forming over the Gascon’s body. 

The assault ended after ten or more punches had came into contact with d’Artagnan’s now sagging body. The Guard pulled back, revealing the hunched form of d’Artagnan, breathing heavily and his head bowed. No doubt his body lacked the energy to hold it high. Instead, it hung on his shoulders, his long, dark hair obscuring his face. 

“So,” Batres’ voice made Athos start. He hadn’t noticed Porthos had fallen silent. Looking at his friend, he saw his eyes closed and his back leaning against the stone wall behind him. It wasn’t like Porthos to look so ... defeated.

“Let us try again.” The Spaniard made no attempt to hide his enjoyment at the events taking place. The man was a maniac. A maniac who found joy in torture and interrogation. “The letter. Where is it?”

Athos slowly looked to his side to find his protégé staring back at him. His face was smeared with blood and a purple bruise was forming from his cheek-bone down to his jaw. But it wasn’t the injuries that drew the majority of his attention. 

He was smiling. The boy was bloody smiling.

He’d caught Aramis’ attention as well and, looking at them both, gave a minute shake of the head. It was a fleeting gesture, barely noticeable if you hadn’t been fixed on the boy. But d’Artagnan’s message reached them loud and clear. 

‘Don’t tell them anything.’

He sent another small grin in their direction before allowing his head to drop back down to face to floor. Athos blinked. D’Artagnan was being tortured for information but he was still sending gestures to reassure his brothers and insist they do not give away what the enemy wants for his sake. The Gascon never ceased to amaze him. 

Aramis turned to look at Athos, determination shining in his eyes. With a small twitch of the lips of their own, they turned in unison to face their captors. 

Aramis spoke. “We know nothing of this letter or where it may be. I suggest you check your sources more thoroughly, monsieur.” He finished bitterly and rattling his chains for good measure. 

Sighing, Batres bowed his head. “I can play this game, Musketeer. But the question is ... can your friend?”

Once again, d’Artagnan was set upon by the Spanish guard, this time getting kicked in the stomach, chest and – rather unmercifully – in the groin. To finish off the beating, the Guard thumped the Gascon hard to the side of the face, sending the boy flying to the ground and colliding with the stone floor, his head smashing into the concrete with a sickening crack. D’Artagnan’s face went blank. 

Porthos growled, shouting words he wouldn’t dare utter in the presence of his majesty and the court - Aramis also joining in this time, flailing wildly and cursing every man in the room. 

But it was when d’Artagnan’s eyes rolled into the back of his head that Athos lost it. The lid that had been bottling his emotions disappeared, and pure and utter rage filled every inch of his body.

“WE SAID WE DON’T KNOW, DAMMIT!” He yelled, overpowering both Aramis and Porthos’ shouts. “Now for god’s sake have some humanity and LEAVE HIM BE!” 

Spit flew from between his gritted teeth and he suddenly became aware that he was kicking forwards to charge at the men standing so casually before him. Gradually, the adrenaline began to wear off and he sunk to his knees, his mattered hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. 

Batres said nothing. Just stood there letting them wallow in silence. After what seemed like an age, he turned on his heel, the Guards following suit, and walked to the door at the far end of the tunnel. 

“I will be back tomorrow.” He shot over his shoulder. “Do not expect things to change anytime soon.”

He strolled through the door, the last Spaniard closing it with a resounding clang and they were plunged into darkness once more. 

Moments after Batres and his men had left, Athos’ head snapped upwards. 

Aramis and Porthos mirrored his action and all three turned to the crumpled silhouette of their little brother. 

“d’Artagnan?” Aramis called, trying to reach for the Gascon but unable to manipulate the chains for him to do so. 

There was no response. Athos tried again. 

“d’Artagnan, open your eyes.”

Again - nothing. 

“Is ‘e breathin’?” Porthos asked. 

Athos froze. From the lack of light, there was little he could see, d’Artagnan being a mere dark shape on the other side of the room. He waited for Aramis’ answer, holding his breath. 

“Yes.” 

Athos closed his eyes in relief whilst, next to him, Porthos huffed a nervous laugh.

“But it’s laboured. I’d say he has some damage to his ribs, possibly causing the difficulty he seems to be having, but nothing fatal.” Aramis paused, sucking in a sharp breath. “His head, however, may be more of a concern.”

Athos groaned. Why couldn’t things ever be simple for them?

“With his concussion from earlier in the evening coupled with the way his head collided with the ground, I’d hazard a guess that he will be unconscious for quite some time. Without being able to assess his head properly, I cannot determine whether there will be any lasting damage or if there is a wound that needs treating ...”

He trailed off, mumbling more to himself than the others under his breath leaving Porthos and Athos to stare at d’Artagnan with wide eyes. 

Athos didn’t know how he felt. Pride at the courage his protégé possessed. Hate at Batres and his men. Guilt at what d’Artagnan had been put through and not him instead. He knew it was irrational, that there was no way he could of known Batres would pick d’Artagnan or that they would even be in this situation in the first place, but somehow he couldn’t help but believe he’d let the boy down. 

There had been an unspoken promise, a vow if you’d like, between the three older Musketeers. When d’Artagnan had finally been formally commissioned into the Musketeers regiment, each of them had promised to each other and themselves that they would look out for the boy. D’Artagnan was still so young and naive, often fighting with his heart on his sleeve rather than using his head. But that is what made d’Artagnan ... d’Artagnan! 

He was their best friend and their little brother. Nothing and no one would ever prevent them from trying to keep him safe. 

Only this time they had failed.

“Stop it.” Porthos mumbled and Athos turned to see the Musketeer looking squarely at him. 

“Stop what?” He asked, but had a feeling he knew the answer. 

“You’re blamin’ yourself. It ain’t your fault, and it ain’t mine either. Nor ‘Mis’, nor d’Artagnan’s. We didn’t know this’d happen, and there was nothin’ we could do that would’ve stopped it except givin’ those sick Spaniards what they wanted and in turn betrayin’ the King. Even then, d’Artagnan could’ve been hurt.” Porthos closed his eyes for a second and Athos knew he was blocking out images of previous events.” You saw the joy in Batres’ eyes. A man like that thinks this is entertainment. He could’ve chosen anyone of us, jus’ the lad don’t know when t’ shut ‘is mouth.”

Porthos chuckled and even Athos’ mouth twitched. The Musketeer began to talk about something d’Artagnan had told him about the time when he was in the cell with Vadim, but Athos wasn’t concentrating. 

Instead, he watched Aramis’ eyes scour every inch of d’Artagnan. The medic’s gaze lasted longer on his chest and head, but other than that, he didn’t seem too concerned. 

“We cannot continue to lie.” Athos blurted out. Porthos and Aramis turned to face him. “I cannot continue to lie.”

Aramis frowned. He turned his whole body to face the other two Musketeers. “So what do you suggest, Athos? Hm? We hand over the letter freely and wait patiently for our deaths? We betray our King and put his life and the future of France in danger? We neglect our duty as Musketeers?”

Athos shook his head. “No! But d’Artagnan-“

“Do you honestly think d’Artagnan would wish for us to become traitors in his name?” Aramis butted in. “He is strong and stubborn, Athos. More than we give him credit for and we cannot simply-“

Aramis froze, his chestnut eyes widening. 

“What?” Porthos mumbled. “Haven’t seen a spider, ‘ave ya?”

But Aramis continued to stare past them both. It stayed that way for what seemed like an age before a broad smile crossed his face. 

“What?” Porthos asked again, this time impatiently. “Tell us, ‘Mis.” 

Aramis brought his hands around to his front, rubbing them smugly. Chain free!

“How-?” Porthos began but Aramis was already crawling towards him. 

“There is a fault in the design.” Aramis stated clearly, grabbing the chains behind Porthos’ back and fiddling with the shackles. “Batres obviously had them made on short notice. The chains themselves are well made, but the shackles? They have been formed in a hurry, hastily finished with bolts!”

“Bolts?” Athos repeated, disbelievingly. Even he wouldn’t be so careless as to finish shackles with bolts.

“Unscrew the bolts near your wrists.”

Porthos’ chains slid from his wrists and, without any hesitation, Aramis was moving towards Athos. But the older Musketeer pulled him short. 

“d’Artagnan.” He said, simply. The sharp-shooter looked as if he mentally slapped himself and nodded, turning in the opposite direction and hastily making for the Gascon. 

Porthos, instead, helped Athos with his chains, twisting the screw until it became loose and fell to the ground, allowing the Musketeer to slip his shackles off his wrists. 

“Athos.” Aramis called as he gently eased off the chains around d’Artagnan’s hands. 

Athos shuffled forwards and fell to his knees beside his protégés head. The boy was certainly a sight for sore eyes. With his normally olive-skin sweaty and pale along with his jaw-line and cheek-bones scattered with bruises, he looked weak and pitiful, young and ill. 

Oh, how d’Artagnan would love you to say that to his face ...

“Cradle his head and check it over.” Aramis ordered. Athos, being second in command behind Treville, naturally led the men - less so when it came to his three friends, but he still held a slightly higher authority above them. When it came to needing the healing hands of Aramis, however, the medic never hesitated to take over the situation, often demanding whoever was around him to collect tools or help with his patient. 

But when one of the four was thrown into the equation ... they all struggled to keep a level head. 

Athos carefully lifted d’Artagnan’s head to rest on his legs. As he brushed the dark hair from the boy’s forehead, something sticky began to coat his fingers. Narrowing his eyes to look through the darkness, he picked up the familiar smear of red across his palm.

“Aramis.” He mumbled, his throat closing and not allowing him to say more than a pathetic whimper of a name. 

Aramis snapped his head to face Athos - Porthos doing the same. The medic drew close, reaching out his hands and ghosting over the Gascon’s face. 

“Blood.” He muttered, confirming Athos’ suspicions. A few feet away, Porthos shifted himself so he was rubbing the calf of their little brother. 

“Aramis?” Still, Athos couldn’t manage to say more than one word.

The medic didn’t reply instantly, instead feeling around d’Artagnan’s head for himself. 

“He’s OK.” He sighed, drawing back and busying himself with d’Artagnan’s jacket. 

Athos closed his eyes for a second, letting relief wash over him. 

“It’s just from a small laceration on his forehead, but nothing major. He’s going to have a seriously bad headache when he wakes, and he’ll probably be disorientated for a few days, but other than that he should be relatively OK.”

Porthos rocked back on his heels, puffing out his cheeks. “Know’s how to give you a scare, don’t he?”

“Indeed.” Athos agreed, allowing his signature frown to reclaim his features. 

Aramis sat back, crossed legged next to d’Artagnan’s torso, cautiously examining his chest and stomach. Athos continued to hold his protégés head, cradling it in his lap.  
“How d’we get out?” Porthos asked. 

Aramis shrugged, replacing the clothing covering d’Artagnan’s torso. “I would say the door is the most obvious choice, but, you know, we could always resort to kicking through the walls and singing them a song. You never know, it might work.”

Athos felt d’Artagnan stir in his hold. Looking down, he saw a small smile plastered on the Gascon’s face. 

“d’Artagnan?” Aramis called, wide eyed and scrambling closer to the boy. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

A small shake of the head followed by a grimace put an end to that idea anytime soon. 

“OK. Can you tell me what hurts instead?” Aramis persisted, ignoring the scowl sent his way from Athos. 

D’Artagnan was still for quite some time. After a while, Athos believed the boy had slipped back into unconsciousness, but he was proven wrong when the Gascon opened his mouth. 

“’vryth’n’.”

Aramis smiled and rolled his eyes. “Well, that narrows it down.” He joked, earning him another tiny grin. “Anything in particular?”

The Gascon’s brow furrowed, suddenly looking alarmingly like Athos. His face contorted as if he was trying to focus on something. 

Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, blinking rapidly, the frown on his face increasing.

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos urged. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes flicked everywhere in the vicinity, resting longer on the questioning face of Athos looming above him. He settled on staring at Aramis, in the end, and his face began to relax. 

“Head.” D’Artagnan grumbled groggily, letting his eyes slip closed again. “’n ches’.”

Aramis nodded. “Do you feel able to walk?” 

D’Artagnan frowned, rubbing his wrists then slowly shaking his head. 

“It’s OK.” The medic reassured. “Porthos, would you care to do the honours, my friend?”

“My pleasure.” The burly Musketeer inclined his head and got to his feet, rubbing his beefy hands together.

“Wha’?” d’Artagnan began to protest as he reopened his eyes and began pushing himself up onto his elbows. Athos waited for the inevitable, and, soon enough, d’Artagnan groaned in pain and collapsed back into his lap.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis sighed, getting to his feet. “Would you please, for once, not be so stubborn and let us help you?”

Silence seethed through the air. Athos continued to keep the boy pinned down to where he lay, not letting him further injure himself. It took a fair amount of awkwardness, pointed glares and impatient sighing for the stubborn Gascon to finally give in. 

“If ‘ny of you bring th’s up in the fut’re, I will not hes’tate to person’lly impale you.” D’Artagnan grumbled. 

Athos quirked a small smile. “You wouldn’t be able to land a blow.” 

The Gascon looked up at him with unfocused eyes. They shone with a deeper sense of youth than he had ever realised. In their line of work, it was easy to forget about the boy still being so young. 

Porthos bent forward, scooping his muscled arms underneath d’Artagnan’s skinny body and lifting him effortlessly off of Athos’ lap. A grimace crossed d’Artagnan’s face as he was cradled in Porthos’ arms, but he refrained from making any noise of discomfort. Instead, he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

Athos grabbed Aramis’ outstretched hand and pulled himself to his feet. 

“So.” Aramis clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. “What’s the plan?”

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “We don’ have a plan?”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Wh’n do we ev’r h’ve a plan that ends up goin’ the way we wanted it to?”

Porthos chuckled. “Lad’s got a point.”

“Hey! We are Musketeers. We’ll improvise.” Aramis chimed cheerfully, starting to lead the way to the door. 

“And if improvising doesn’t work?” Athos muttered. 

Aramis turned, mocking a pout. “Then we’ll have to be the Captains problem.”

Athos sighed. He caught d’Artagnan’s half-lidded eyes and rolled his own.

They walked further down the tunnel, Porthos readjusting d’Artagnan in his arms a few times and letting the boy rest his head gingerly on his shoulder. Once they reached their door to escape, Aramis froze, his hand still resting on the handle.

“All for one.” 

Porthos laughed. “Really? We’re doin’ that now?”

Slowly, Aramis pulled on the handle and the door swung open, allowing a river of light to flow into the gloomy tunnel. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden surge of light, Aramis walked forwards, making his way down the fire-lit corridor ahead - Porthos following and Athos bringing up the rear. 

As they walked, voices could be heard in the distance. The voices were relatively loud and making no effort to whisper. It was easy to pick up their Spanish accent and, for Athos and Aramis, was a good opportunity to finally gain some source of defence. 

They slowed their pace, nearing a sharp corner and stopped by its side. The Spaniards were just round the bend, and the fact that they were still deep in conversation meant the Musketeers had not yet been discovered. 

Athos held up a hand, signalling to wait. 

“Stay here.” He whispered to Porthos. The burly Musketeer still carried d’Artagnan and the Gascon himself was now more lucid, looking around and occasionally fidgeting with unease. 

“We’ll be back before you know it.” Aramis added, his own voice barely audible. 

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to speak but one look from his mentor silenced him and he sunk back into the arms of Porthos. 

Athos came up beside Aramis. In one swift movement, they rounded the corner and wrapped their arms around the unprepared Spanish guards, placing their palms to cover the Spaniards’ mouths. 

The guards struggled, kicking and crying out, but their movements subsided and their shouts were muffled as the oxygen supply was cut off by arms around their necks.  
Both guards fell limp in unison, dropping to the ground with a small thud. Bowing down, Athos grabbed the weapons from his man’s uniform. 

Daggers, rapier, pistol, bullets, powder ...

Looking over, he saw Aramis collecting identical tools.

Athos whistled, signifying to Porthos that the coast was clear. The Musketeer came round the corner; only d’Artagnan stumbled along beside him, one arm slung over Porthos’ broad shoulders. 

“What?” Porthos whispered at the looks his friends were giving him. “The stubborn whelp insisted.”

Rolling his eyes, Athos walked towards them both, handing Porthos a dagger and d’Artagnan a pistol. 

“Are you OK?” He asked the Gascon, blue eyes wide. 

D’Artagnan nodded. “’m fine. Jus’ want t’ get out of here.”

Aramis came up alongside Athos, placing a hand on the young man’s forehead. 

“Tell us if you feel unable to walk.” The medic ordered, his usual light tone gone, and replaced by one more serious and mature. “Porthos will carry you if not. And d’Artagnan?”  
The boy looked up with round, blurry eyes. “There is no shame in accepting help.”

The Gascon smiled cheekily. “You’re all becoming ‘s bad ‘s Const’nce.” 

Purposely missing the swipe aimed at d’Artagnan’s ear, Aramis pivoted and led the way once again down the hall, the formation of before falling into place. 

“Where is ev’ryone?” d’Artagnan whispered, looking behind him at Athos. 

“Dunno. Batres is probably busy with somethin’, like planning tomorrow’s events.” Porthos said. 

D’Artagnan shivered and closed his eyes. Without anyone noticing, Athos moved closer to him. 

“Do we even know where we’re goin’?” Porthos asked, placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s chest as he stumbled.

Aramis shrugged. “I’m relying mainly on instinct ...”

“Oh joy.” Porthos rolled his eyes. “We’re currently tryin’ to escape from a tunnel somewhere under Paris whilst watchin’ out for Spanish guards who seem like they wanna torture us partly for information, partly for fun. One of us is unable to walk on his own, we’re lacking in a plan and weapons but thank god we’ve got Aramis’ instinct to fall back on!”

“Sh!” Athos hushed. 

“What? You’re not sidin’ wi-“

“Sh!” Athos snapped again. Porthos got the message and fell silent. 

Aramis pulled to a halt, looking back over his shoulder. 

Athos met his gaze, flicking his head to his right. 

More voices.

Spanish. 

Three?

No. Four. 

At least four guards were around the next corner. 

Athos walked forwards, grabbed d’Artagnan’s other arm and threw it over his own shoulder. Along with Porthos, the three scurried in the opposite direction, into a dead end. 

Carefully, they lowered the Gascon to the ground, against the stone tunnel wall. Aramis crept behind them, his back facing his friends as he kept an eye on the corner which hid them from view while Athos crouched before his protégé and brushed the sweaty hair from his still pale face. 

“Stay here. Don’t move and don’t do anything stupid.” He said sincerely, giving the young Musketeer his best ‘Do as I say, or else’ glare. 

Porthos handed d’Artagnan a pistol and went to stand watch with Aramis. Athos stood up straight. 

“Wha’ are you waiting for?” d’Artagnan said after Athos continued to stare at him. “Go show ‘em your moody side before I fall ‘sleep.” 

The words, though slurred, still held a good sense of humour – something Athos took as a good sign. 

“Stay here.” He repeated. With a last, ‘Don’t you even think about it’ look, he straightened his legs and clapped his hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

“Ladies.” He bowed his head in mock respect.

Aramis turned to look his way. “Six of them. Two for each. We can’t risk any of them running to tell Batres that we’ve escaped.”

Porthos nodded. “Aye. And I’d hazard a guess that they might be a bit miffed t’ see us out an’ about.”

“Oh, very. It’s such a breach of their privacy.” Athos added. 

“I do hate to upset our hosts.” Aramis sighed. 

“But I think Treville might be missin’ us.”

“And we don’t want him in a bad mood for training, now. Do we?”

“Treville? Bad mood? Never in a million years ...”

“So we really ought t’ be makin’ our leave.”

“Gentlemen. After you.”

Athos waved a hand to the corner and Aramis and Porthos careened round the stone, barrelling straight into the unsuspecting bundle of Spaniards. 

Porthos boomed his mighty laugh, swinging his pistol to collide with a guard’s head. 

Athos lunged forwards, aiming a particularly powerful strike to one of the two guard’s sides he was fighting. The silver of his blade flashed through the air, moving in an elegant blur of motion, swishing and slicing, left right and centre. 

From behind him, the snarky voice of Aramis could be heard taunting his own pair of duellers. The sharpshooter always had a way of pushing his luck. A quality he shared with d’Artagnan. 

Athos blocked a jab to his chest, spinning and catching the Spaniards leg with his rapier, causing the man to cry out in pain and fall to the floor. His face remained neutral as he speared the guard’s chest, impaling him with a sword stolen from his comrade. Not the most honourable of deaths, Athos concluded, now advancing towards his final opponent. 

“Por favor senor, por favor!” The Spaniard pleaded, backing away. He turned to run but tripped over the corpse of the man Athos had just spectacularly impaled. 

He felt more than heard the familiar presence of the two Musketeers come up behind him. Both clearly finished with the dealing of the other four. 

“I shall tell you anything! Anything you want to know!” The guard begged, scrambling further back but stopped as his back hit the stone wall. 

“Coward.” Athos heard Porthos mumble. And it was true. This man had not been touched. He had given in on a fight and immediately surrendered himself to the opposition, betraying his country and comrades. D’Artagnan however ...

“d’Artagnan.” Athos shot over his shoulder. 

Both Aramis and Porthos disappeared around the corner, heading for their little brother, leaving Athos to deal with his excuse for an opponent. 

“You are so easily willing to betray your country, just so you may save your own skin.” Athos murmured. “Why should I let you live?” He narrowed his eyes. The tip of his blade rested on the Spaniards shoulder. 

“Because senor ... because I can get you and your Musketeer friends out without any trouble.”

The stolen rapier pushed harder into the man’s skin, edging up near his neck. 

“If you’re lying and leading us into a trap,” Athos moved his head closer to the guard’s, the sword slicing faintly across the man’s neck, so that his lips were centimetres away from the Spaniards ear. “I’ll know.”

The guard gulped, shaking and stumbling away from Athos. Smirking, the Musketeer grabbed the man’s uniform and swung him in front of him.

“Let’s go get your new friends shall we?” He said dryly, pushing the Spaniard in the direction of the dead end.

Knowing better than to refuse, the guard shuffled along the pathway and turned the corner to where Porthos and Aramis stood, holding up a rather ashen-faced d’Artagnan.

“’e don’ feel too good.” Porthos grumbled when d’Artagnan swayed to his right.

Aramis steadied the young man by wrapping an arm around his waist. “I’d say it was the concussion. He’s being moved around too much for my liking and I can’t determine the extent of his head injury. We-“

He was interrupted as d’Artagnan doubled over, spewing the contents of his stomach at their feet. 

The Spaniard backed away but Athos roughly pulled him back to stand beside him. 

Porthos grimaced, shuffling his boots away from the line of fire but still supporting the majority of the boy’s weight. Aramis, however, had begun to rub circles on d’Artagnan’s back, whispering soothing words to his bowed head. After what seemed like an age, d’Artagnan had expelled any and all food he had in him, finally sagging into Porthos’ chest.

Athos took a step closer to his protégé. 

“Time to make a move, I believe.”

Porthos grabbed d’Artagnan’s arm, once again slinging it over his shoulders. 

“Up you come, whelp.”

A whimper came from behind the curtain of hair obscuring the Gascon’s face. Counting to three, Porthos hauled the slim form of their little brother into his arms, cradling him against his chest. 

Aramis eased d’Artagnan’s head to lay on Porthos’ bicep. Then, after wiping his face clean of sweat with his own sleeve, he side-stepped to stand next to the Spaniard. 

Athos shoved the guard in the direction they had come from. 

“Lead the way.” He snarled. 

The man sobbed pathetically but started to walk out of the tunnels, leading them around twists and turns, stopping every now and again to listen for sounds. 

D’Artagnan had slipped into unconsciousness after a few minutes. Each time the guard halted, Aramis took the opportunity to examine his patient, checking him over briefly until they were ushered by Athos to ‘keep moving’.

Finally, after weaving their way round countless stone walls, an archway appeared. Long, steep, uneven steps led up into loud, bustling streets of Paris. 

Athos breathed a sigh of relief, beginning to walk up the stairs. 

“Senor!” The guard shouted from behind him. He stopped and turned to look. “Where do I go?”

The Musketeer shrugged moodily. “I suggest you start running before I change my mind about letting you live.”

The Spaniard swallowed, then bowed his head. “Gracias Senor. I will not forget your mercy.” And with that, he sprinted through the street, heading for the city walls. 

Athos looked at Aramis, who had both eyebrows raised. 

“What?” He grumbled, starting to walk up the stairs again. “I can be gracious if I so wish.”

Aramis chuckled behind him. “You and I both know that none of us do gracious.”


	2. Wrong Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos, Athos and Aramis hold a little secret meeting to discuss some important issues concerning their friend. After asking around, they plan a small surprise for a certain persons ... birthday? Fluff!  
> As Requested by Tidia - 'For a request- they don't know when d'Artagnan's birthday is, but want to celebrate it.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please look at notes at the end. Also, this wasn't my usual kind of writing. Fluff isn't exactly my thing but I'd thought I'd give it a go. Let me know what you think - Ellie x

“’Mis, he ain’t comin’.”

“I’m just keeping an eye out.”

“He’d see you anyway.”

“No he wouldn’t. I’m too stealthy for that.”

“Uh huh. And tha’s why you’re standing in full view beside the window.”

Porthos grabbed Aramis’ sleeve and pulled him into the centre of the room.

“Hey!” Aramis snapped, brushing the leather of his jacket to exaggerate.

Porthos smirked. Crossing his arms, he headed to sit opposite Athos who was eying up a lonely bottle of wine on the table. 

“So,” Aramis huffed, wandering over from the window. “Any ideas?”

Porthos shrugged. “We don’ even know when it is.”

“You’re the one who suggested it.” Athos muttered, looking up from the alcohol to frown at his friend. 

“What?” Porthos grumbled. “I wasn’ bein’ serious.”

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we just guess? You never know, we might get it right.”

“’Kay. I’m goin’ for next month.” Porthos said, leaning back into his chair and looking at Aramis. 

The sharpshooter shook his head. “July? No. I’d say November.”

The two musketeers turned expectantly to their friend. Athos’ face remained neutral. 

“September.” He murmured, looking longingly again at the wine. Porthos followed his gaze and promptly removed the bottle from the table, a grateful nod from Athos in return. 

“Well then,” Aramis rocked back and forth on his heels. “How about we-“

The door swinging open had him fall into silence as Treville entered. His blue cape billowing out theatrically from behind him made him look majestically superior. 

“And what, may I ask, are you doing here when you’re meant to be training?” He glowered at each of them in turn.

Aramis stepped back, standing at Porthos’ shoulders as he and Athos slowly got to their feet. 

“Captain?” Porthos looked directly at Treville. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

A whispered ‘You just did’ from Aramis earned him a small elbow to the side. 

“Go on.” Treville obliged. 

“Do you know when d’Artagnan’s birthday is?”

 

“Hey whelp, over ‘ere.” 

Porthos waved at the Gascon wandering aimlessly towards him. D’Artagnan wiped the sweat from his brow using the bottom of his dirtied shirt, tossing his training sword into the pile. He came level with the burly musketeer.

“Finished?” Porthos asked, raising an eyebrow at the state his young friend was in. Training was very rarely an immaculate task to come out of, but d’Artagnan seemed to be covered head to toe in the dirt of the Garrison floor.

“Pierto threw me into the haystack. Just for good measure, you know.” D’Artagnan grumbled sarcastically, rubbing his side. “He didn’t quite grasp what I meant when I said ‘just swords’. 

Porthos chuckled. 

“More like used you as the bloody mop for this place. I mean, have you seen how you match the ground so perfectly?” He paused at the look d’Artagnan gave him. “Um, well, best you’d get cleaned up. Got somethin’ to show you.”

Porthos said no more, only walking off smugly, leaving behind a curious and filthy-looking d’Artagnan.

 

When d’Artagnan reached Treville’s office, he found himself hesitating outside the door. Pressing his ear against the wood, he could hear hushed voices and quick whispers inside. Unable to decipher properly what they were saying, the young Musketeer settled for depicting who the voices belonged to. Aramis’ bright tone was easily distinguishable, as was Porthos’ low, gruff laugh followed straight after. No doubt Athos was with them both, sitting quietly in a corner and his default frown set over his face like a shadow. 

Porthos had said he wanted to show him something. The vagueness of the statement was enough to spike d’Artagnan’s young curiosity, making him wash and dress quickly, heading straight to the room Porthos had gone into - that room being the Captain’s office. Thinking about it, he’d hardly seen his friends all day. They’d joined him briefly at their table for breakfast before scurrying off and shouting things like ‘Need to see the Captain’ and ‘Saw some good baguettes’ and ‘Promised I’d pay a visit to the most generous woman ...’

It didn’t quite fit together at the time, and now d’Artagnan seemed to twig that something was going on that they weren’t telling him about.

Unable to contain his growing curiosity any longer, d’Artagnan pushed open the door and, without even a knock to announce his arrival, walked straight in. 

Six startled faces greeted him. 

Well ... five. Athos didn’t seem too surprised. 

An awkward silence filled the air. Porthos and Aramis stood shoulder to shoulder in front of a table. On his right side was Constance. In the left corner of Treville’s office stood both the Captain and Athos and finally, lingering right next to him was ... Serge?

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows at the unusual gathering. There was definitely something going on that they weren’t telling him about.

A rather exaggerated cough from Aramis had him looking his way. 

“Right ...” Porthos started to say, but ended up looking to the sharpshooter by his side to continue. 

“We, er, weren’t quite expecting you so soon.”

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows impossibly higher. 

“What they mean is come in and make yourself comfortable.” Constance put in, waving him over to follow her to a chair. As d’Artagnan moved closer to his wife, the people surrounding the table drew back, slowly revealing a carefully assorted group of gifts ... and a cake.

Serge walked forwards, holding up his hand. 

“Tha’s mine.” He pointed towards the slightly burnt sponge in the middle of the table before heading towards the door. “Happy Birfday.” 

The door clicked shut as the cook left with nothing else to say or do. 

D’Artagnan blinked, turning again towards his friends in the room. He’d never felt so confused in all his life. 

“What’s going on?” He asked, looking between Porthos and Aramis. 

Porthos brushed his beard. 

“Well, the thing is, we thought that three years is a bi’ of a long time t’ go without a birthday celebration. We’ve had all our ... parties, shall we say? But you’ve never even mentioned yourself. Time for you t’ sit down and celebrate the Musketeer way.”

A huge grin spread across Porthos’ face as he rubbed his hands together. D’Artagnan swallowed nervously. He had absolutely no clue what to do. 

It must have shown on his face as Aramis began to frown. 

“You don’t mind do you? I mean,” He looked around the room. “We haven’t gone over the top have we?”

The innocence of the question made d’Artagnan laugh which served to bring down the tense atmosphere. He shook his head, still grinning.

“No. No it’s fine, just a little surprising is all.” 

Porthos’ smile widened. “Tha’s what we were aimin’ for.”

Constance gently pushed him down to sit in the chair at the table. She then leaned over, pecked him on the cheek and handed him the first of his ... birthday presents?

It was a small, delicate package. The beige paper was decorated with a crimson ribbon tied in a neat bow. The careful work was obviously to Constance’s credit, her immaculate perfection in all details shone through. 

Slowly, he began to un-wrap the gift, removing the bow first then unfolding the paper. 

When all the wrappings were undone, a silver pendant slid from the package and into d’Artagnan’s palm. 

A thin chain slid through the gaps of his fingers as easily as water. The trail of silver seemed to flow down to an ornate locket patterned with a number of clovers. After a moment of admiring the outside, d’Artagnan clicked it open, revealing a single four-leafed clover engraved on the inside with the word ‘luck’ written on the opposite half. 

“Oh, Constance.” He sighed, his voice cracking slightly, his eyes still fixated on the pendant. “Constance this ... this is-“

“Good luck.” She interrupted him before he could finish. “It’s supposed to be good luck. I thought, with the amount of trouble you lot seem to attract, that it might help keep you safe.” She paused and placed her hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “And it’ll always be a piece of me with you.”

D’Artagnan beamed. Gripping the locket tight, he stood and kissed her passionately, his arms wrapped around her waist pulling her closer to him. She tensed at first but soon relaxed, placing both her palms on either side of his face, embracing the moment. 

A few awkward coughs and mumbles from behind him finally made d’Artagnan pull away. Breathing deeply, he turned and sat back in his allocated spot, still smiling childishly.  
“You done?” Joked Porthos, smirking at the young Gascon. 

D’Artagnan felt his cheeks redden but before he knew it another present was being shoved underneath his nose. 

“From me.” The Captain’s gravelly voice stated, handing over the biggest package on the table before crossing his arms and standing back to where Athos leaned against the wall.  
D’Artagnan nodded as he took the present, already ripping open the paper – less delicately than he had Constance’s. It didn’t take long. 

A bundle of tightly wrapped cloth, magnificent shades of blue and cream, was the Captain’s gift. 

“For new uniform.” Treville said. “I thought it time to ... give something back.”

“Yeah, so you don’ look like a scruffy whelp all the time.” Porthos added. 

“Seriously,” Aramis joined in. “We need to look our best and can’t have you bringing our image down, now, can we?”

The banter between them brought smiles to everyone’s faces. Even Athos’ mouth, d’Artagnan noticed, twitched at the hint of a grin. 

“Thank you.” The Gascon said earnestly, placing the cloth on the table and the locket, which he’d still been holding up until that point, on top. 

“Me next!” Porthos announced. He eagerly stepped forwards, pushing a long, flat package, identically wrapped to another on the table, across to him. “Don’ get too excited, mind you.”

After a minute or two later, d’Artagnan held a pair of gloves and a belt. Both matched with intricate patterns of swords and pistols embroidered on them. 

“See? ‘Mis was right. Our image is very important.” Porthos then nudged Aramis in the ribs to get his attention. “Told you I could do fashion.”

A sarcastic roll of the eyes was Aramis’ response. 

Another ‘thank you’ from d’Artagnan and they were moving on. 

Taking a moment to look between the two remaining gifts, d’Artagnan reached out and grabbed the closest and largest one to him. 

“Good choice.” Aramis winked. He sent a cheeky toothy grin in Athos’ direction. 

Giving the sharp-shooter a pointed look, d’Artagnan proceeded to unwrap the present. 

“A hat!” He exclaimed, once the gift was distinguishable from amongst the layers of wrapping paper. 

“Your final initiation into our band of misfits.” Aramis bowed theatrically. “Every Musketeer must have his hat.”

D’Artagnan’s smile broadened as he placed it jauntily atop his mop of brown hair. 

“I shall wear it with honour.” 

“You’d be’ter.” Porthos mocked sincerity. “Tha’s our signature accessory.”

Constance smirked. “I care less what I wear than you lot.”

D’Artagnan, once again, nodded his gratitude to Aramis who smiled in return. Rather reluctantly, the Gascon removed the hat and all eyes fell to the remaining wrapped present on the table.

“Care to join us?” Aramis sighed, looking over to Athos, still hidden in the shadows of the corner of the room. 

Slowly, the Musketeer walked forward, the buckles of his boots clicking with each step. 

When he reached the table, he tapped the gift with two fingers. 

“Be careful. It’s sharp.”

Athos’ tone remained the same as always, but a certain sparkle in his eyes glinted teasingly as he looked up from the present towards d’Artagnan. 

The boy in question ripped the first part of the wrapping paper off. Immediately, the sun that shone through the office windows reflected off whatever remained hidden inside, causing several residents within the room to repeatedly blink away the residual light. Pausing a moment to regain his sight, d’Artagnan continued to tear away the wrappings, until; finally, a small silver dagger lay flat against his palm.

But this was no normal, ordinary dagger...

“Where did you get this?”

D’Artagnan frowned at how accusing he’d made the question come across as. Several people in the room seemed to notice the tone he’d taken as well, looking confused. Athos, however, looked a little guilty.

“After LaBarge burnt down your farm, just after you got commissioned, I decided to visit Gascony. I came across the ... remains-“ He hesitated for a second, then continued. “-and found it amongst the rubble. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to give it to you.”

Pure silence fell about the room. D’Artagnan stayed staring at the dagger for a long time before he finally spoke. 

“You added my initials?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper. 

Everyone but Athos and his protégé seemed a little lost at what they were talking about now. They stayed in silence out of respect of course, but that didn’t stop them from sharing bemused shrugs and bewildered looks between their sides of the room. 

“I thought it fitting.” Athos mumbled back. “You are, after all, still your father’s son.”

Trailing down the hilt of the dagger were individual initials engraved into the hard-set leather. Some had been chipped in, others roughly cut, and one was even embroidered, but a pair nearing the bottom matched each other side by side. 

‘A.D - C.D’

Without sparing another thought, d’Artagnan jolted up from the chair for the second time that afternoon, almost leaping over the table and wrapped his arms tightly around Athos’ neck. 

The world seemed to freeze. 

Short intakes of breath echoed around the room and every pair of eyes stared wide-eyed at the strange phenomenon that was Athos being ... hugged!

This wasn’t a quick pat on the shoulders glad-you’re-okay hug which they regularly exchanged amongst the four brothers. This was a full-blown heartfelt embrace. 

And Athos seemed to be oddly okay with it. 

Well, fair enough, the broody Musketeer wasn’t quite hugging back – more of an awkward pat on the back going on – but he seemed to still accept the fact that d’Artagnan, his protégé, was indeed hugging him. 

As d’Artagnan finally pulled back and whispered a quick and an extremely grateful ‘Thank You’, the Musketeers in the room were reminded of just how young their newest member still was. It had been three years since he’d first stormed into the Garrison, demanding to fight Athos and in the end fighting all three with only Constance to more or less save his skin. The rest of the time since then had flown by and none of them could remember a time when they hadn’t been together. They were inseparable. 

The Gascon, feeling himself redden, coughed awkwardly and sat back into his chair, placing the dagger next to his other gifts. 

“Thank you, all of you. This is just ...”

He was at a loss for words, instead letting himself trail off but the meaning of what he was trying to say having gotten across. 

“Naa, no problem whelp.” Porthos smiled and then looked longingly towards the cake Serge had prepared. “Um, you’re not hungry are you?”

Laughter filled the room as Constance went to cut the first slice, Aramis and Porthos practically wrestling each other to get there first. Treville went to stand beside Constance, looking disapprovingly at the banter but a small spark of amusement shone on his face. 

D’Artagnan got up from his chair and moved to the side of the room. He backed away to stand beside his mentor, both looking at the group of friends in front of them. 

“I’m sorry ... about ... you know-“

“It’s fine.” Athos murmured and then even more quietly- “I understand.”

The Gascon nodded and they fell into silence for a little while longer.

“How close were we?”

It took d’Artagnan a while to figure out what Athos had meant by the vague question, but realisation soon dawned on him. 

“Oh, right. Three months.” D’Artagnan laughed. “My birthday is in October but July isn’t too bad I guess.”

Athos chuckled beside him, turning briefly to look at his protégé. 

“It was Treville and Porthos who both thought July. To be honest, none of us had a clue. Why didn’t you ever say?”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I’ve never really celebrated birthdays. We didn’t have a lot of money to spare when on the farm and when my mother got ill ... it just didn’t seem important after that.”

Athos’ eyes softened, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry-“

“No, don’t be!” D’Artagnan cut him off, shaking his head. “My father still gave me a small gift each year. We didn’t forget it completely. But this right here-“ He gestured to the room. “Is more than I’ve ever had or ever thought I’d have. I suppose that’s why I got a little ... over-whelmed.”

They both chuckled again, looking on at Porthos now trying to persuade Constance to give him Athos’ slice of cake. 

“I think we’d better grab our share.” Athos finally said, already moving towards the others. 

D’Artagnan grinned, following behind his mentor. 

“Aramis don’t even think about taking my piece!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait! Literally, I've been overwhelmed with copious amounts of homework, coursework and revision to do so this has been a little stoppy-starty. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Also, I'm blown away by the response I've had with this. It's incredible. I've saved notes of all requests, so don't worry, I'll eventually get round to doing them. Keep them coming guys! I'm a firm believer of a person can never have too many requests/prompts etc. Oh, and IT'S MY BIRTHDAY SOOOOOOOOON! Yep. I think that's partly why I made good old d'Arty's birthday in October as well. I did some research but couldn't find his birthday anywhere so I thought ... why not, eh? ( 28th October is mine, if you'd like to know. Why not leave me a lovely comment as an early birthday present? )
> 
> Anyway, once again, thank you for reading. Please leave some kudos and comment and I'll see you for the next one-shot - Ellie x


	3. A little too quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four Musketeers are out with the regiment on a training exercise. Whilst returning from patrol they encounter a little trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by 'Deana'-An owie for Aramis next?  
> Well, it's the shortest one so far but I wrote it quicker than the other two. There wasn't much I could expand upon on this however I did include some lovely banter between the boys and highlighted the closeness of Mis and Porthos :) See notes at the end - Ellie x

The blistering sun beamed down on their backs as they scouted the area. Four casual Musketeers stuck together as they searched the vicinity surrounding the Musketeer camp. 

A training exercise, nothing special. Treville had decided to send them on a two day trek through the forest, with nothing but their daggers and a pistol. 

Things in France had been quiet lately. The Musketeers - having had more than enough free time - had been practically desperate for action. There was only so much duelling and riding the regiment could bare.

Indulging them, the Captain had allowed the majority to ‘stretch their legs’ and have a few days working together. 

Around three quarters of the Garrison had gone to the forest and half of them were currently patrolling the area, as was routine, for any sign of trouble. Those left at their makeshift camp practised their swordwork or gathered supplies, getting ready to spend the night. 

In the eyes of a Musketeer, it was a perfectly pleasant pass-time. 

Nearing the evening, after half the day patrolling together, the four inseparables decided to head back to the camp. Having to put up with each others varying levels of sarcasm and tiredness had its consequences.

“Remind me again why we agreed t’ this?” Porthos moaned, wiping his brow. The sun was just beginning to set, the air cooler than it had been all day. 

Aramis, who was walking in line with d’Artagnan and behind Porthos and Athos, threw some damp leaves at his friend’s head.

“Stop complaining. I’d rather be out in the open, able to walk around and explore than I would staying cooped up within those horrible, dirty brick walls back there under the ever watchful eyes of our dear Captain.”

He pointed over his shoulder in the general direction of Paris before grabbing another handful of leaves from a nearby tree. 

d’Artagnan shook his head, smirking. 

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with escaping a certain woman’s husband, threatening to flatten you anytime this week, would it?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re on about.” Aramis crossed his arms, slowing to a stop with the others following suit. 

Athos turned to look at his protege, both of them sharing a look. 

One.

Two.

“Besides, she was the one to ask me to teach her how to ride. How could I refuse a lady?”  
While d’Artagnan sputtered into laughter, Porthos turned around and grabbed Aramis’ hat off the top of his head. 

“How many is that now?” He asked, spinning the sharp-shooter’s hat in his hands.

Athos shrugged, crossing his arms. 

“I’ve lost count.”

“Give me back my hat.”

Porthos looked up at his friend. 

“Make me.”

The sharp-shooter gaped before rolling up the leather of his sleeves. 

“Fine!”

Athos pushed d’Artagnan back a little, rolling his eyes at the clearly concerned expression on their youngest’s face. 

“It’s play fighting. Don’t look so worried.”

Letting out a breath, the Gascon placed his hands on his belt and watched on, a little more relaxed. 

Porthos lifted the hat higher above his head, twirling it tauntingly on one finger and practically beaming. 

“Last chance. Give it back.” Aramis chimed sweetly, as if talking to a child. 

Porthos was laughing now. 

“You’re gonna have t’ do that y’self.”

He then looked to his side at the two idly standing Musketeers - d’Artagnan and Athos both now looking mildly amused.

“You two gon-”

He was cut off, flying backwards towards the ground, Aramis wrapped around his waist and pinning him on the floor. 

“Hey!” A muffled yell from Porthos broke through the commotion. He was currently laying on the floor with the hat covering his face, his friend on top of him, wearing the look of victory.

“No one messes with my hat.” Aramis scolded cheekily, rolling to the side and letting a rather unamused Musketeer get to his feet. 

“That ain’t fair. I wasn’ even ready.”

d’Artagnan wandered over to Aramis, offering a hand to help him to his feet, Athos extending the same courtesy to Porthos. 

Aramis smiled, opening his mouth to say something but Athos quickly held up a hand, signalling silence. The Musketeer was staring past the three of them, concentrating solely on what he could hear.

All of them froze. 

Snap.

d’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis turned their backs, forming a circle facing outwards. 

Less than a second later, another audible snap could be heard. Four heads turned in that direction, narrowing their eyes and straining their senses, all of them holding their breath, keeping as still as possible. 

Yet another twig breaking could be heard, this time closer and in Athos’ direction. Then the click of a pistol. 

“Get down!” Athos shouted, ducking to the floor, the others following less than a second after. 

A gunshot rang out, making birds flee from surrounding trees. The bullet flew through the air, narrowly missing Athos’ head. 

All four jumped to their feet, drawing out their own pistols and Porthos shooting in the direction the shot had come from. 

Aramis jogged forwards, quickly looking Athos over. Satisfied that there were no injuries he turned to get back in position, just as something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. 

A faint glint of silver. 

Snapping his head to the side, Aramis saw a pistol poking out from the bushes and aiming straight for Porthos. 

Without thinking the situation through and acting utterly on instinct, Aramis lunged to the side, shouldering Porthos out of the way. 

A second gun-shot rang out and a sharp pain tore through his bicep. 

The world turned grey as he fell to the floor, his hand instinctively going to the wound, immediately feeling a wet sticky substance dripping down his arm. Blood.

Just what he needed to finish off the day. A nice leeding bullet wound. 

Swallowing, he turned to look at his friends, trying to keep an eye on the situation.

Porthos was roaring, firing his pistol at two or three other men who had appeared from the trees. Athos and d’Artagnan fought the same opponent, quickly getting the advantage and Athos knocking him unconscious with his fist. 

Porthos had plowed through his men, all lying lifeless on the ground. He breathed deeply, now looking at a very pale Aramis. 

The injured man went to hold up a hand, saying he was ok but groaned when it pulled on his wound and promptly let his arm return to where it had been, draped over his side. 

Returning his weapon to his belt, Porthos made his way over to his friend, looking briefly over his shoulder at the other two. 

“Did you get him?”

Athos shook his head. 

“He ran into the woods before we got a chance. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Leave him to me.” d’Artagnan muttered. The Gascon sheathed his dagger, grabbed a pistol on the floor and ran into the darkening forest. 

Athos began to head in the same direction. 

“I’d better go after him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid like run into more of them. If anyone’s bound to do that, it’s him.” He looked back. “You’ll be ok?”

Porthos nodded, kneeling beside a grimacing Aramis. 

“Go. But come straigh’ back.”

He nodded and began to sprint after his protege. 

With gentle hands, more gentle than you’d expect from someone like Porthos, he pulled back the bloodstained uniform, examining the bullet wound. 

“Bad news.”

“What?” Aramis looked genuinely worried, his big brown eyes widening. 

The Musketeer kept his head bowed, looking at the floor for a while until his shoulders started to shake. At first, Aramis thought he was crying but upon further inspection, it seemed he was laughing!

“You’re gonna live.”

Porthos looked up then and laughed even louder when he saw the look plastered on his friend’s face. 

“Oh … your … your face … I … it … you took it so seriously …” He wheezed.

Aramis, however, was less amused. 

“Are you serious? I’m here, bleeding, having taken a bullet for you and you start cracking jokes? That’s my job!”

A light hearted anger fleeted across his face. 

“Hey, I didn’ ask you to be my hero, did I?” Porthos said, calming down.

“Oh, ok then! Come here and we’ll switch places. Let me just shoot you in the arm.” Aramis proclaimed sarcastically. Once again, he attempted to get up but winced as he moved, unable to stop the groan of discomfort which slipped through his lips. 

Porthos’ smile slipped slightly, his hands going back to the wound. 

“Tell me what I can do ‘Mis.”

“Just … keep pressure on it.” Aramis ordered. Obeying, Porthos ripped a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around his palm, pushing down firmly. The would-be medic shut his eyes tightly as fire spread through his arm. His body went rigid as he stifled another groan. When he spoke, his voice trembled. “Did the bullet go straight through?”

The dark-skinned Musketeer arched over his friend’s body and peered round to his other side. 

“Uh, yeah, I think so.”

Aramis let out a sigh of relief. 

“Good. That saves me a heck of alot of pain. Just keep pressure on both sides until the others come back, would you?”

“Got it.”

Porthos helped Aramis sit and lean against a nearby tree, the two of them chatting quietly as if nothing had happened. They remained that way for around half an hour before-

“Did you ‘ear that?” 

Aramis fell silent, listening. 

Footsteps. Two or three of them. Heading their way. Fast. 

“Stay here.” Porthos whispered, getting to his feet. Aramis shot him a look which said ‘seriously’ but stayed silent, watching. 

Porthos moved to stand behind another tree, his back pressed firmly against the thick trunk. His pistol was clutched against his chest. 

The footsteps slowed. It was now close to pitch black in the forest, the only source of light a faint silvery glow streaming through the small breaks in the branches above. No one said anything, all of them seeming to freeze, waiting for someone to make the first move. 

Patience wasn’t one of Porthos’ values unfortunately. It didn’t take long for the Musketeer to begin to twitch behind his cover, eventually spinning out into the open and aiming his pistol right in between a certain person’s eyes. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. One of us has already been shot today and I don’t know about you but I’d prefer not to make too much of a mess.”

Athos’ calm voice broke through the air, making Aramis, with his back turned away from them all, smile. 

“About bloody time.” He grumbled. 

“And I see you’ve brough’ us a friend! How nice.” Porthos murmured darkly. 

Athos walked forward, dragging with him the man who had shot Aramis. d’Artagnan had hold of his other arm and by the looks of it, a lot tighter than his mentor. 

“d’Artagnan caught up with him almost immediately. As soon as he was less than three feet away, he fell to his knees and began begging us not to kill him.”

d’Artagnan smiled darkly. “I’m pretty sure he’ll regret that decision after we’ve finished with him.”

Porthos was helping a still shaken Aramis to his feet. They walked towards the gunman, Aramis stooping and crouching down so his face was centimeters away from his. 

“Who sent you?”

“B-b-Batres. Antonio Batres.”

Athos and d’Artagnan didn’t seem shocked. 

“He told us as soon as we asked.” Athos mumbled. “It seems our friend Batres now holds a bit of a grudge against the Musketeers.”

Porthos scowled. “First d’Artagnan, now ‘Mis. I’m really startin’ t’ hate this guy.”

The man’s pathetic whimpers echoed through the trees. 

“What do we do with him?” d’Artagnan asked, tightening his grip on the man’s upper arm. 

“I know what I’d like to do.” Porthos growled, taking a menacing step forwards and cracking his knuckles. 

Athos shook his head. 

“We should take him back to the camp. I’m sure the others are wondering where we are. We can deal with him then.”

Porthos looked openly disappointed. 

“How’s your arm?” Athos added, nodding at Aramis’ bullet-wounded bicep. It had stopped bleeding now and hung limply at his side. 

 

“It’s ok.” Aramis huffed. “I’ve had worse. Although, on the bright side, women love a man with battle scars. Just another story for me to recount about my bravery.”

It was too dark to see, but Aramis was pretty sure Athos was rolling his eyes. 

“Let’s get him back to camp. We can clean that wound properly and deal with him.” Athos shoved the gunman to the floor, d’Artagnan letting go. 

The man looked around at them, shaking. He seemed to twist his head back and forth, looking anywhere and everywhere. A twig snapping sounded from behind them and the four Musketeers turned to look, just as he scrambled to his feet, rolled and snatched up d’Artagnan’s pistol. 

He pointed it at Aramis, now smiling. 

“This time I won’t miss.”

Laughing, he pulled the trigger. 

And nothing happened. 

“Wha…?”

Four very entertained Musketeers stared at him. 

“Do you think we should have told him it wasn’t loaded?” d’Artagnan asked, not even trying to hide his amusement. 

Porthos crossed his arms. 

“Now what would be the fun in that?”

Athos walked forwards, grabbed the pistol out of his hands and clouted him around the head. 

“I think we should make a move now. We need to get back to Treville by tomorrow. He needs to be warned about Batres.”

Sighing, Porthos grabbed the man by his arms and tossed him, not delicately, over his broad shoulders. 

“Let’s go.”

d’Artagnan pulled Aramis to his feet, Athos patting him on the arm and the four Musketeers made their way back to the camp.

The gunman was in for a long, long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Birthday soon! I wrote this one pretty quickly. I've had a lot of free time at school lately so figured I might as well do some work on this. Once again, would LOVE to get some more requests from you all. It's also half term now which means even MORE time being able to write. Looks like I'm gonna be a busy bee. This is probably my least favourite out of the one-shots so far but it's not too bad I guess. Also, what did you think about my bringing a certain Spaniard back to play. I don't know whether to keep him up as it may get confusing, switching between episode one-shots and totally separate out of the blue one-shots. Lemme know whatcha think please. See you soon - Ellie x P.S: You all have no idea how much I smiled with the reaction I've got from this. Incredible. All of ya!


	4. Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a commotion outside the Garrison and Porthos and d'Artagnan intervene. The cause of the upset, a disagreeable group of men, however, have something to do with d'Artagnan's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by: Honey In The Sunshine - "I'd love to read about Aramis, Athos and Porthos learning something about D'Artagnan's past."
> 
> Once again, the italics just don't like me ...

D'Artagnan and Porthos sat at their acclaimed table within the Garrison. It was a cool autumn day, resulting in many of the regiment taking advantage of the weather and training in the courtyard. Treville, as usual, surveyed each of their progress, pacing back and forth from the balcony outside of his office. He nodded down at the two friends, them nodding in return before d'artagnan let his head drop into his hands.

"When are they going to be back?" He asked, the question muffled by his mouth pressed into his palms.

Porthos shrugged, taking a swig of the drink in his hand and wiping away the few drips down his chin with the back of his hand.

"Dunno. 'Mis said they had to go down to the market." He held up a hand, silencing d'Artagnan who looked like he was about to interrupt. "Don' ask me why. Probably an assignment or somethin'."

D'Artagnan drew out as long sigh, playing with a splintering piece of wood.

"Besides," Porthos continued. "Am I that bad for company?"

"Well, you're above Athos' social skills." d'Artagnan smirked, meeting the Musketeers eyes. "But only just."

Porthos mocked throwing the cup at his friend, the two falling into silence for a while and watching their comrade's train.

It was as they stood to take their turn to spar that a shout caught the attention of the whole Garrison.

"Oi. Come here you scumbag!"

All heads snapped in the direction the voice had come from, that direction being just outside the regiment's walls.

D'Artagnan was the first to investigate, already making his way to the streets outside, Porthos close behind. The majority of the other Musketeers followed, now forming a group of curious men wandering out of the walls.

Paris wasn't exactly renowned for its clean streets and polite people. Fights and brawls often occurred throughout the city, so much so that citizens tended to walk straight by any sort of trouble, thinking it was the usual daily commotion. Musketeers and the occasional Red Guard would be more likely to put an end to any 'out-of-hand ' fighting they came across, but even then, the soldiers weren't entirely innocent themselves.

But as the group of Musketeers rounded the corner to see a small crowd gathering and several curses and obscenities being shouted back and forth, they knew this wasn't the 'usual daily commotion' they were used to.

The soldiers pushed their way through the crowd, people already starting to scatter at the arrival of the Musketeers. Soon, the gathering began to thin, only leaving a circle of unpleasant-looking men pushing and shoving four young teenage boys.

The boys in question stumbled back and forth inside the ring, one of them tripping over and falling into a broad, long-haired man.

The man snarled and pushed him to the ground. "Big mistake." He snapped.

"I'm s-sorry, I tr-tripped." The boy stammered. "Please, just … just let us go. We'll cause you no trouble, sir." He shuffled backwards, two of the other boys helping him to his feet.

Another man came forward, shaking his head. He was bald, the only hair on his face the untidy stubble around his chin.

"Now where's the fun in that?"

He lifted his hand, getting ready to strike the boy.

Porthos and d'Artagnan didn't hesitate. They ran forward, Porthos catching the man's arm as it swung down and twisting it - not so gently - behind his back while d'Artagnan stood protectively in front of the teenagers.

The bald man was shouting a few choice words at Porthos, but the Musketeer just chuckled.

"I ought t' wash your mouth out with soap." He teased, lifting the man's arm higher, into his shoulder blades, cutting him off mid-curse.

By now, the surrounding offenders had closed in, seemingly forgetting about the boys and staring menacingly at the two of them. The long-haired man made to reach for a pistol he carried on his belt but d'Artagnan shook his head.

"Oh, I wouldn't if I were you."

The Gascon nodded to the group of Musketeers still standing to the side, all in a uniformed line and glaring at each of the men.

He looked back to the long-haired man, smirking as he watched him spit at the ground near his feet.

"Good choice." He said, smiling.

The man narrowed his eyes, stepping away. Then stopped. He pivoted around, eyes locked onto d'artagnan's face.

"I know you." He sneered, looking squarely at d'Artagnan, who stood frozen to the spot. "I've seen you before."

d'Artagnan frowned, ushering the teenage boys behind him to make a move out of here. The boys muttered a quick 'thanks' and ran as fast as they could away from the stand-off.

"I thought i recognised him as well." The bald man stepped forwards, smiling. "He's the farm boy. That one who caused us … trouble."

It felt like the world had been tipped upside down. Realisation hit him fast with a hard blow. Suddenly, d'Artagnan forgot how to stand, stumbling backwards, instinctively trying to get away from the men. It was all coming back to him now. All the running, all the fighting, all of his childhood.

The dark-haired man smirked, taking a step forwards. No one dared move a muscle. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Well fancy seeing you here. Long time no see."

Everyone was becoming restless, the Musketeers and other men still staring each other down.

D'Artagnan said nothing, lost for words. He could see the man's fingers twitching closer to his belt.

"We've missed you, you know."

D'Artagnan was just about to retaliate when a Musketeer tackled one of the men to the ground. It seemed to trigger the brewing commotion. All hell broke loose.

The dark-haired man ran towards d'Artagnan, unbuckling the pistol from his belt and swinging it madly in the air. D'Artagnan dodged the first aim at his head with the butt of the gun. He was vaguely aware of Porthos calling his name but his eyes were glued to the man before him. That face he knew all too well.

"What's your name again?" His attacker asked, face lighting up with a dangerous smile. "D'Artagnan, was it? Charles d'Artagnan?"

At the Gascon's widened eyes, he laughed.

"Charlie! Long time, no see. Tell me," He paused, holding the pistol above his head. "How's Daddy?"

It took a moment for d'Artagnan to register exactly what had just been said. He clenched his fists and roared, charging forwards, not thinking about what he was doing. The dark-haired man raised his eyebrows and easily stepped aside, swinging the gun into the back of the Gascon's head.

d'Artagnan grunted as he fell to the floor, his sight blurry and senses muffled. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion behind a grey haze. He tried to lift himself up but his limbs felt like lead. Shaking his head, he rolled onto his side, coughing out the dirt he had swallowed when colliding with the floor.

A boot pressed down onto his chest, restricting his breathing and making him choke.

"Now now, we've got a lot of catching up to d-"

But the man was cut off, Porthos having barrelled into his side and sending him a fair way to his right along the floor.

""I'm afraid that catchin' up's gonna have t' wait." Porthos growled. He turned and offered a beefy hand down to the Gascon who, in response, blinked up questioningly at it, still gasping for air.

Porthos frowned, grabbing d'Artagnan's bicep and lifting the boy up with him. d'Artagnan moaned as he was pulled to his feet, his face paling. Porthos placed the boy's arm over his shoulders, supporting him and walking forwards to the man he'd previously sent flying across the ground.

"This isn't over." The man snarled, spitting on the floor.

Porthos nodded.

"Too right it ain't."

With that, he turned, swinging a mildly out-of-it Gascon around with him. Zig-zagging around the groaning and whimpering bodies of the men strewn around the street, they headed back into the Garrison, a group of smug-looking Musketeers following behind.

~{0o*x*o0}~

Aramis winked at the young trader opposite him, complimenting her on how a certain fabric contrasted her pale skin. Behind him, Athos rolled his eyes and turned to keep walking. His eyes sweeping over the sea of heads, busy afternoon traders and commoners all occupied with buying or selling. It always amused Athos how some people's lives were so … simple.

It was as he was doing this that he spotted a certain familiar muscular build towering above the crowded street. Tilting his head to the side, he caught his fellow Musketeers eye as he watched him wave towards an alley and disappear into the cut-through.

"Aramis." He said sharply. Aramis turned, smiling lightly at something the trader must have said, but soon became serious at the look on Athos' face.

He looked back at the girl, miserable.

"I'm afraid this conversation has to wait another day, mademoiselle." He gently kissed the top of her hand and headed after an already retreating Athos.

Athos kept his face expressionless when Aramis jogged to his side.

"Another admirer?"

Aramis smiled cheekily.

"What can I say? It's a gift."

They both rounded the corner into the shadowed alleyway, finding the dark silhouette of Porthos standing a few feet away.

"I see you've been busy?"

Aramis folded his arms, about to retort when Athos cut in.

"What's the matter?"

Porthos blinked.

"I haven' even said anythin's the matter yet!"

"You didn't need to." Aramis interjected. "And after what you've just said, it gives it away my friend."

Athos stared intently at the Musketeer, waiting patiently for the inevitable recounting of whatever had happened - because something always happened. He didn't wait long.

"There was a slight … hassle, outside the Garrison earlier." At the sudden suspicious eyes of his friends, Porthos quickly added, "Nothing we couldn' handle, o' course!"

"What kind of hassle?" Athos asked.

"Group of men causin' trouble for a few boys. Like I said, nothin' we couldn' take care of."

"So why come here then?" Aramis stepped forward, pointing over his shoulder towards the bustling street they'd come from. "I mean, as much as your mere presence is a delight, we are working."

"Where's d'Artagnan?"

Both Porthos and Aramis turned to face Athos. The Musketeer was staring at the former, brow furrowed in concern.

Porthos rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding their eyes.

"He's, er, back at the Garrison with a mild concussion."

Aramis snorted, rolling his eyes and brushing a hand through his hair.

"You're joking?" When Porthos continued to look at him with a straight face, he sighed. "Well, I'm not surprised."

Athos, however, walked level with Aramis, his lips pursed shut. Both Porthos and Aramis knew that look, and it meant nothing good.

"He's alrigh', nothin' serious. He's jus' a little ...out of it."

Aramis crossed his arms.

"How-"

"How'd he do it?" Porthos finished. The Musketeer actually smirked. "Some troublemaker took 'im on. Don' worry though, I made sure t' convey our sincere disapproval on all our behalves."

The sharpshooter smiled, knowingly.

"Care to explain what happened?"

~{0o*x*o0}~

He was running.

The fields either side of him passed as blurs, the buckets of water swinging and sloshing by his sides. Behind him, the thumping of a group of feet slowly getting closer.

He rounded the corner, tossing himself behind the big oak tree, the now half-empty buckets dumped by his side. He took deep breaths, as quietly as possible, covering his mouth to muffle his greedy gulps of air.

The footsteps stopped.

Instinctively, he tucked his arms tight to his side, holding his breath and pressing his back to the tree.

'Please don't find me, keep going. Please don't find me. Please, please please please plea-'

Rough hands grabbed the collar of his shirt, swinging him from behind the tree and onto the cobbled road. He felt his knees catch on the stones and was pretty sure the side of his face was grazed but rolled himself over, none the less, and stood to face the boys after him.

"Aww, look at little Charlie, all grown up and fighting back."

One of the boys advanced towards him, hands in fists. He took a deep breath, standing his ground.

"I'm not going to run away, if that's what you're thinking. Not this time."

Another of the boys laughed. There were six in total, two of whom looked like brothers.

"Really?" The boy scoffed. "But you're so good at it!"

Sniggers and jeers echoed around the group, the boys rubbing their hands eagerly.

"Come on, Charlie. We're only having some fun."

Charlie swallowed, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

"Oh would you look. At. This." The eldest of the group, around 17 years old with long, dark hair walked forwards. He eyed Charlie with what looked like hunger, him the predator, the boy his prey.

Charlie tensed, fiercely fighting with his will so as not to back away.

"Look's like little Charles ain't so scared no more." He smiled, watching Charlie's face. "Has Daddy been training you up? The great Alexandre D'Artagnan, training his 12 year old son how to defend himself … finally."

"I'm not scared of you." Charlie murmured, trying to hide the shake in his voice.

"Of course not." Another boy spoke. "But we'll soon make sure you are."

~{0o*x*o0}~

He was running.

He was faster now. Older, more skilled. Charles d'Artagnan jumped over the fence, landing, going into a roll and sprinting once more. Behind him, shouts and laughter and the distinct sound of breaking wood followed.

This was a weekly routine. Get water, get spotted by Isiah and his 'friends', run away, make it back to the farm, make it back to the farm, make it back to the farm.

It normally ended with the safety of the farm …

Unfortunately, today was not his day.

d'Artagnan's foot caught on the root of a tree, sending him sprawling onto the ground, his face skidding in the dirt. Desperately, he tried scrambling to his feet, rolling over onto his back and shuffling backwards but his ankle protested painfully, sharp shooting pains running up his leg.

Isiah slowed to a jog, cockily shaking his long hair over his shoulders. The other boys behind him smiled, their lips twisting mischievously up into their faces as they approached the fallen farm boy.

"Looks like Charlie's become quite the sprinter." laughed a boy, around the same age as d'Artagnan. 15. "Can we take some of the credit?"

d'Artagnan spat on the ground, still shuffling back on his elbows.

"Bet you've been practising your fighting too!" The boy carried on. "Daddy's little soldier. Shame mummy dearest isn't around to see it anymore."

It took all the self-control d'Artagnan had not to launch himself at the group. As much as he'd love to send each of them running, he knew it'd be unwise. He was outnumbered.

Isiah stepped forwards, silencing the other boys. "Who'd you think you are?" He paused. "Are we playing Musketeers again?" At the sniggers of the group, Isiah continued. "I'll tell you what, we'll be the bad bandits and you can be the brave Musketeer. Are you ready, Charlie?"

d'Artagnan let himself be hoisted to his feet by two of the group. He hid his grimace as his ankle touched the ground.

"On three then." Isiah chirped.

d'Artagnan readied himself. So what if he was outnumbered? He could take them.

"One."

He took a deep breath, already eyeing up a fallen branch to his left.

"Two."

He bent his knees.

"Three."

d'Artagnan threw himself towards the branch, rolling on the floor and coming back to his feet clutching the wood. He wobbled slightly as another sharp pain spread up his leg but ignored it as he lunged forwards, swinging the branch at Isiah's legs.

The young ringleader yelped, jumping over the stick and taking two paces back. d'Artagnan hobbled forwards, blocking a clumsy strike aimed for his head with another branch a boy had picked up. He twisted his body round, slamming the branch sideways into the boy's stomach, causing him to double-over in pain.

He was about to move onto his next victim when two boys grabbed him from behind. Try as he might, their hands remained stubbornly clasped around his arms. He kicked at their shins but another boy grabbed his ankle, causing him to yelp and lash out. Isiah walked forwards, frowning.

"Charlie has been busy." He said, ruffling the Gascon's hair. d'Artagnan jerked his head away, glaring at the bully.

"I think we'd better teach Charles d'Artagnan a lesson to be afraid again."

~{0o*x*o0}~

d'Artagnan jolted awake. His eyes snapped open to see he was in his room at the Garrison, tangled in bed sheets and sweating.

Those dreams … those memories …

Why was Isiah in Paris? Of all the places in France he had to come, it had to be Paris.

He shuffled, pushing himself up with his elbows. A sharp pain in his head made itself known and he began to groan. That was when a pair of hands pushed him back down on the bed.

d'Artagnan cried out, attempting to fight the hands away. It was Isiah. He was here!

"Calm down, whelp. We're only tryin' to help you!"

d'Artagnan stilled.

"P'rthos?"

He looked to his side. Porthos sat near the door, hunched over on the edge of his seat. Athos sat on the other side of the room and looming over him was the charming face of Aramis.

"I didn't mean to startle you." Aramis apologised, sitting back in his chair beside d'Artagnan's head. "But I don't think you should get up just yet."

d'Artagnan sighed, falling back into his pillows.

"Sorry, I didn't realise it was you."

Silence fell about the room. All four of them exchanging quick looks at one another. This carried on for some time. d'Artagnan, feeling his eyes begin to droop, nestled back down under the covers.

Of course, that was when they began to talk.

"Porthos told us what happened in the street."

d'Artagnan moaned, burying his head into the pillows like a child. He heard Aramis chuckle beside him, sure that the medic was looking at Porthos as he did so. But everything hurt and right now he didn't feel like explaining the traumatic events of his past to them all.

It seemed Athos was less keen to let him go back to sleep.

"Tell us what happened." He said.

"You know we'll find out eventually." Aramis chipped in, a gruff grunt of agreement from Porthos following.

As much as he hated to, d'Artagnan had to agree. His three friends had a way of always finding out the truth from one another.

With a sigh, he rolled back onto his back, eyes locked onto the ceiling.

"It's a long story."

"We've got time."

Of course they had ...

~{0o*x*o0}~

"Son of a-"

"Porthos." Athos warned, although the face he wore showed he was thinking along the same lines.

d'Artagnan had told them everything. About how they had bullied him as a child. About how he had asked his father to teach him how to fight. About how he'd train day and night, getting faster and stronger. About the one time they finally caught up with him. About how they'd 'taught him to be afraid'.

"So that's why you learnt how to fight?" Aramis asked, eyes wide.

d'Artagnan nodded, rubbing his temples.

"And they-" Porthos paused, taking a deep breath to calm his anger. "they did this for how many years?"

"The first time they chased me home was when I was 11. I think I was … 16 … yeah, 16 when I managed to get rid of them. I took a training sword from my father's room, you know, a wooden one. I managed to hold them off until my father found us." D'Artagnan paused, suddenly fascinated with a fraying piece of the bed-sheet. "He, uh, wasn't too happy with them, to say the least." D'Artagnan smiled to himself, his eyes sad.

"Why'd they do it?" Porthos asked, sat on the edge of his chair and rocking back and forth.

To be honest, d'Artagnan never knew. He shrugged his shoulders in answer to Porthos' question, trying to think back to the first time they'd chased him. But he had no idea why they had chosen to bully him in particular.

Athos, who'd hardly said a word since d'Artagnan had woken up, got to his feet and walked towards the door.

"We end this. Tonight."

d'Artagnan sat up so fast, it made the room spin and himself tilt sideways, Aramis having to grab his shoulder to save him from falling off the bed.

"Woah there." The medic said. But d'Artagnan ignored him, looking straight at Athos and shaking his head.

"What are you talking about? You're not going to kill them!"

"'Course we're not!" Porthos grunted, looking mildly amused. "We'll jus' make sure they get the message t' not bother anyone else again."

A nod of agreement from Aramis and a slightly disappointed incline of them head from Athos served to calm d'Artagnan. He relaxed, swinging his legs off the bed and putting his head in his hands. After telling them everything, he was exhausted, but couldn't deny the weight that had been lifted off his chest felt good.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked. Out of the corner of his eye, d'Artagnan could see the Musketeer's fingers twitching, trying to resist examining him one last time.

He sighed.

"For the last time, 'Mis, I'm fine. Just a headache."

Aramis didn't look overly convinced, however was satisfied the Gascon wasn't – as far as he could tell - dying and therefore left it at that, turning to their friends sitting quietly in the corners of the room.

"So," Aramis exclaimed loudly, making d'Artagnan wince. "it's all well and good, this fighting talk we've got going on, but I'd love to know how exactly we plan to arrange this little rendezvous."

Athos looked to Porthos.

"Fancy a drink?"

Aramis raised his eyebrows. "Athos, I hardly thin-"

"Aramis, on the way to the market we saw a travelling group of seemingly unpopular men in the tavern, drinking themselves into a stupor while causing some form of chaotic mess. What is the probability of that being them and them still being there?"

"Oh. Right. I just thought-"

"Porthos?"

"Ready when you are."

"We'll be back within half an hour."

The two comrades walked out of the door, leaving a slightly awkward Aramis and a highly entertained young Gascon.

~{0o*x*o0}~

The streets of Paris were bare and empty, dark and damp. The rain hammered down upon the cobbled paths, splashing up dirt and creating murky puddles in which rippled reflections of bedroom candles could be seen.

Further into the heart of the city, a loud group of men were being pushed out of the doors of the tavern and into the desolate alleyway from the back. Bartenders and commoners alike threw insults at the gang, waving their hands at them to 'clear-off'. Gradually, one by one, the group of drunken men turned their backs, laughing at the people inside and walking down into the emptied marketplace.

Their drunken grumbles and slurred speech echoed around them, their feet stumbling in the puddles as they walked. It was near midnight. No one was around. The majority of the people of Paris prefered to safety and comfort of their own homes when dark, knowing full well of the dangerous and desperate people that plagued the city at night,

It was as they rounded from the other side of the alleyway that they came face to face with four dark, tall silhouettes standing silently in the shadows.

All the men came to a sudden halt, one or two bumping into the backs of the others, their lethargic minds not quite being able to stop themselves in time.

"Yes?" A dark-haired man from the group stepped forwards. Isiah. "Wha's't?"

One of the silhouettes grumbled something incoherent to a person standing next to him, the other letting out a small chuckle.

"Wha'd'ya w'nt? We ain't got no money!" Another of the men shouted, followed by a hiccup.

Three of the silhouettes turned to the smallest of them all, who, after a few seconds hesitation, stepped forwards into the light. The moon shone on his face, illuminating the hard, cold stare set there.

"Hey!" The man who had spoken before swayed where he stood, pointing a finger forwards. "'s tha' farm boy again. Ch-arlie."

The men all had the same reaction - wide grins spreading across their faces. It was then that the three other silhouettes walked forwards, levelling with the first.

"I won't let you do this to anyone else anymore."

~{0o*x*o0}~

"I won't let you do this to anyone else anymore."

D'Artagnan kept his face firm. He felt his friends brush up beside him.

"I beg your pardon?" Isiah grumbled, suddenly turning serious. The change between drunk and vulnerable to dangerous and menacing was unnerving.

"I said," d'Artagnan sighed. "I'm not going to let you carry on terrorising people like you have done me, and I'm sure, countless others."

His own childhood flashed before his eyes, causing him to shudder. Aramis gave him a quick look, and after d'Artagnan shook his head, he turned back to face the group.

"You are not welcome in Paris." Athos said loudly, gaining the attention of all the men. "Leave now and we will let you go freely. Refuse to and I'm afraid we'll have to make you."

Isiah laughed, but was only one of the few that did.

"I'm sorry, but that just isn't possible. You see, we've some unfinished business here with our friend Charlie."

Porthos growled, actually stepping in front of the Gascon.

"Touch 'im and you're dead before you hit the ground."

"Let me correct myself." Athos murmured, his voice low. "Leave now and we will let you go freely. Refuse to, and it will be our pleasure to make you."

D'Artagnan made no effort to hide the smirk that appeared on his face.

"Leave." Athos said sharply. A couple of the men looked hesitant, glancing between Isiah and the four Musketeers.

Athos sighed loudly, looking bored.

"Fine. We shall you until the count of three after which we shall be forced to drag you through the streets and out of the city walls ourselves."

Aramis chuckled. "And I wouldn't try him, if I were you. Athos hasn't had a drink today and tends to get a little touchy."

D'Artagnan picked up on the use of the countdown, reminiscent of the time Isiah and the boys had done a similar thing for him.

"One." Athos began.

Several of the men shuffled their feet uneasily, silently communicating amongst one another from behind Isiah.

"Two." Porthos quipped.

This time two of the group did leave, walking hastily down the street, splashing in the puddles.

"COWARDS!" Isiah shouted at their retreating backs, making a man behind him jump.

The Musketeers hesitated, giving the men left a chance to leave. Besides a few uncertain glances, the men looked as if they weren't going to move. Well … at least not by themselves.

Aramis shrugged. "The more the merrier. Three!"

Athos stormed forwards, heading for the bald man. Aramis and Porthos charged purposely past Isiah and for the two men quivering in the shadows, leaving him for d'Artagnan.

"Well well well Charlie, you've gone up in the world."

d'Artagnan lunged for Isiah's arm which he caught reaching for the pistol on his belt. He forced the hand down, the pistol shooting downwards and straight into it's owners foot.

Isiah roared, hopping on one leg, completely forgetting about d'Artagnan in front of him. Athos snapped his head towards his protege from where he was pinning his man against the wall. If d'Artagnan wasn't mistaken, the Musketeer looked mildly amused.

"Was that really necessary?" The elder asked, his lips twitching from hiding a smile.

d'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.

"Accidents happen."

He casually strolled forwards to where Isiah still clutched his bleeding foot, whimpering in pain. Slowly, he crouched down so he could peer up into the dark-haired man's face.

"If you ever show your face anywhere near here again, we will find you and you might not come out of it as well as you have this."

He looked down at Isiah's foot.

"I'm not afraid of you, any of you, anymore. In fact, I suppose I should thank you. Without you, I probably wouldn't be where I am today."

Isiah opened his mouth to say something but all that came out was a grunt of pain. d'Artagnan patted his knee in mock comfort, agitating the man more, then his face turned cold

"Now leave."

Isiah spat at him, the saliva drooling down the Gascon's leather jacket. d'Artagnan laughed, wrinkling his nose.

"Thank you." He huffed. "I'll treasure it forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY TO YOU ALL! It's been 2 and a half months since I last published on here. Literally, that's bad. I'm ashamed. Unfortunately, before Christmas, we had copious amounts of revising to do for our GCSE mocks, add that to the coursework and the overall family festive period, I haven't had a lot of time to write. Now, however, in between the tests/exams and coursework, I'm able to free up some more time and write to my hearts content. Also, I've been very busy with a close friend of mine with another Fic we are both writing together. Words can't even express how much we're putting into this, how much time and how much thought - it's gotten to the point where we're both a little OCD about details now. Anyway, I just wanted to say Happy New Year to you all, sorry for the wait, I will still be taking prompts and I'll get to writing the next chapter RIGHT NOW! Feel free to leave me prompts through tumblr as well - ellieboots2810 :) Oh, and who's still looking out for the Musketeers Series 3 trailer on the BBC? Byeeee
> 
> P.S: One last thing. In the time I haven't published, Paris feel victim to a terrible terrorist attack. I'd just like to say that together, we're stronger! #PrayForParis


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